Interlude
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: The Vessel tag: "It started with a cough."


**Interlude**  
**K Hanna Korossy**

It started with a cough.

There could have been a hundred reasons for it, of course. The dusty motels they stayed in, with mold-ringed ceilings. The farmland air they drove through for hours, golden with pollen. The stuff he breathed in when that thing he stabbed exploded into black…gunk.

They bought cough drops, then cough meds, then a humidifier. Neither of them too worried, until middle-of-the-night wheezing and a snapped-on light revealed Dean's blue face and frantic eyes. Then it was panic and 9-1-1 and trying to keep Dean calm and pulling in what little air he could. And Sam charging into the hospital in an undershirt and wild hair, demanding to be with the patient they'd just brought in.

The diagnosis was double pneumonia. Hadn't he seen the symptoms, they asked? Sam was at a loss to explain that they were rarely were running at a hundred percent, that hunts often left them exhausted and achy, that Dean was struggling with maybe causing the end of the world and that tended to put a strain on one's body and soul. Sam finally gave a weary shrug and told them Dean hadn't complained. Which was true.

The oxygen tent was intimidating. They were in the ICU, but Sam wasn't restricted to visiting hours, which alone would have told him how serious this was even without the plastic tent they set up over Dean. His sunken cheeks and gasping didn't help, and the few times his eyes fluttered open, there was no dark humor in them, no making light of this. Sam wasn't even sure Dean saw him, let alone recognized him.

He let the hunt go without a moment's thought. A few more people would be terrorized by the poltergeist; oh well. Someone else could deal with it. Sam's only priority was Dean's next breath.

The hospital's rhythms became the new normal. Sam went and bought the three Agatha Christie's they had in the book shop. He looked for Stephen King, too, for Dean, but the only one they had was _Pet Sematary. _That was a little too close for comfort to a recent hunt in Louisiana, however, so he ended up with Calvin & Hobbes. The Christies Sam read to himself, determinedly, like medicine. The comics he read and described to his brother, who lay drowning in his fluids and probably completely unaware.

Sam never let go of his hand or his wrist throughout, waiting for Dean to shake him off. But he didn't.

Dean wasn't responding to meds the way they'd hoped. A healthy, young man shouldn't be hit this hard by a virus: Did he have any personal issues?, they asked Sam. Was he someone who wanted to live?

Sam thought of a possessed Cas, of Amara, of Charlie and Bobby and _Delphine_, of _I'm the least valuable player, _and lied through his teeth. Of course Dean wanted to live.

That night when the shivers and the choking on phlegm got bad, Sam ignored the rules and climbed under the tent with Dean, two big guys wedged into a single bed. The oxygen would make him lightheaded soon, Sam knew, but that was the least of his concerns. He pressed his forehead against the hot, sweaty one, and poured out his desperation. First determined and strong, like Dad. Then, eventually, teary and snotty, like a scared little brother.

Dean's vitals slowly started improving.

Sam kept reading. Somewhere along the way, he was pretty sure Dean started listening.

The first few wakenings were more reflex than anything. Twitches of discomfort, confusion. The hand in Sam's clenching and unclenching. Then finally, finally, Dean actually looking at him from under heavy eyelids. Awake just long enough to hear Sam's watery, "Welcome back, man."

They let Dean leave a full week after admitting him. He didn't fight the wheelchair, walking like the old man Sam often feared he'd never get to be. He dozed off before they even pulled out of the parking lot, a shadow against the passenger-side door, still coughing sometimes in his sleep.

Sam had had a long time to think about where they would go. He immediately turned east.

Atlantic City wasn't most people's idea of a relaxing place, but for one hollowed-out hunter, it was perfect. Days on a beach—Dean ensconced under an umbrella Sam hastily rented, after their first day netted a crop of freckles and sunburn—became lunchtimes sampling all the concessions and afternoons at the casinos and, eventually, Dean soloing on a night with some bikini babe who'd jumped at the chance to play nurse. When he managed _that _without losing his breath, Sam figured they were safe. Two days later, they headed back to the bunker.

They didn't talk about it. Not once Dean was conscious, anyway. Not about why he'd gotten so sick, nor about how he got better. But Sam hovered and Dean let him, and sometimes they exchanged a long look of, _I know_, and, _I know you know_.

Amara was out there. And Lucifer, which terrified Sam. And he was inside Cas, which shook Dean. They had no new leads or ideas.

But Dean had had an out and he hadn't taken it. He told Sam the truth about Amara, and eventually shared with him about Delphine and the brave crew of the _Bluefin_. He sat and did research across from Sam and ate somewhat healthy food without too much complaining and drank less and got enough sleep that he lost his living-dead look. And Sam finally believed it, that Dean was fighting with everything he had, for them both, with Sam.

And he started breathing again.

**The End**


End file.
